TOM – We’ve another poem from Miss April
DICK – I like Miss April. Her poems are about bottoms and poo and stuff. My sort of poems.
TOM – You said it was about piles.
DICK – Yeah Tom, this one is.
TOM – You always leave piles everywhere. I don’t like piles. Piles of dirty clothes, piles of them dirty magazines you buy, piles of dirty dishes, and piles of toenail clippings.
DICK – Tom. Tom. Tom. Them ain’t dirty mac men mags, them is literature, sweetie. Literature. I’m saving money on washing up liquid and saving to buy a dishwasher, seems a waste of pennies to wash them dishes. You’re always telling and telling and telling me to take care of our pennies …
TOM – Yeah but …
DICK – No buts Tom. And for the record them ain’t a pile of dirty clothes, that my little bird-brained matey is an art instillation.
TOM – Really! Goodness I had no idea.
DICK – And ain’t you proud of our nail clipping collection?
TOM – Deffo.
DICK – Anyways, different sort of piles. Here Google.
TOM – OH! EW! WHAT? HOW? I don’t want a bottom.
With Toilet by April Salzano
as chair, I release my shit,
a line, an edit,
a phrase captured like seahorse-
shaped feces floating in a bowl.
This is not the place for beauty.
Hard core stuff is wiped away with witch
hazel to prevent skid marks and shrink
the prolapse of anal veins, prone
in people who sit too long. Blood pools
in rectum, the doctor says. Fissures
bleed bright red rivulets into water,
the remedy for which is a scalpel slice,
a cure that hurts worse than the affliction.
This is as close as I get
to a room of my own.